


Mise en âme (Getting Soul, Soul in Place)

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Allegorical-ish, Gen, Pretentious, Screenplay/Script Format, Theatre, Twaddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1579244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once more I manage to venture into fanfic that fails to conform to the norms of fanfic. Sue me. I started out as a theater babe.</p><p>This is...hmm. Abstract set, surreal story, characters in search of a meaning, weird, unplayable, more than a bit pompous, and something I do when I should be otherwise working.</p><p>Really. It's a script. It's flakey. It's got all these quirky bits of freakishness--bits of "Camino Real" weirdness, Tom Stoppard "Rosencranz and Guildenstern" lunacy, a dollop of "Skin of our Teeth" fluidity, and far, far too much no-budget theater talking heads/no tech/low tech. </p><p>All it needs is Death from Pratchett to show up and ask if anyone's seen the seventh seal, sorry to be a bother, but there was an accident with a circus and someone has to take care of the wrap-up....He's done the first six seals and the occelot, but the seventh seal seems to have gone missing. Yeah. And now that I've thought of that ending I'm half tempted to edit it in. Consider yourselves warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mise en âme (Getting Soul, Soul in Place)

The audience enters to an already darkened theater, conducted to their seats by ushers, following ramps with bright but carefully shaded and angled foot-lights. They’re safe, but feel, perhaps, just a tad unsafe and out of control. As they settle, they begin to notice the movement throughout the theater, find their place in the space. A theater-in-the-round performance space occupies center stage, with distinct stations set up around the verge, and empty stage in the center. This can be made out only dimly, though, and in sudden vivid little reveals as black-clad techs cut across the performance area carrying strong flashlights. The techs murmur into their headsets, communicating with their teams. As the theater fills, shadowed figures in what may be costumes scuttle onto the stage to check different stations—they hold much smaller keychain flashes, and appear to be checking small details—props, cue cards, hidden shots of vodka? The audience can’t tell.

The audience had best not count on ever knowing.

As the theater fills, the murmur rises. It becomes harder to pick out audience members, techs, performers—it’s all a blurred jumble of bodies in the dark.

Just as the audience is beginning to wonder if the show will ever begin, the theater falls completely dark. The ushers’ lights, the techies’ flashlights, the foot-lights all disappear. Then, down the central aisle, in single file, the characters arrive, each still holding a tiny keychain flash to light the way. Little can be seen but the flash of feet ducking in and out of the circles of light. They go up the stairs leading up to the performance space, and one by one all but one find places around the verge, leaving only one station unoccupied, only one character unseated.

From directly above, a small fixed spot suspended directly over center stage goes on. It’s a dead-white light, un-gelled, unforgiving. Beneath it stands Sherlock Holmes.

Benedict Cumberbatch? Yes? No?  No, more Benedict than anyone, but the audience thinks it may spot traces of Rathbone, of Brett, of Downey… It doesn’t matter. Everyone will see it a bit differently. Theater in the round is like that.

No. Correction. Theater is like that. Period. Full stop.

Sherlock: (Looking archly out at the audience.) Well, it _is_ named after me, isn’t it? They don’t call the show “Mycroft!” And no matter what Moffat says, it’s not “Lestrade!” either. It’s me. One genius, one audience--perfect fit. That’s the soul of the thing: the observer and the observed. Nothing else is needed.

Mycroft: (Drawling sardonically while seated at his station—a massive gothic chair and a small occasional table with a silk runner, an open leather-bound book, and a Very Nice Globe. It is the sort of set-piece used for formal portraits in the Victorian and Edwardian era…) Oh, do get on with it, baby brother. I know this bit satisfies your ego, but you know as well as I do that the rest of us all have a role. And for that matter, you know perfectly well that in reality the stage is inside out.

Sherlock: (rattled, and peeved) Do shut up, Mike! They’ve already given you ten times your former glory, and made you my boss in espionage. Isn’t that enough for you? Or do you want your own spin-off? “Mycroft—The Whitehall Years.”

Lestrade: (Leaning toward John. Lestrade’s station is a pub table with a pint glass and a chair.) Wha’s he mean, “The stage is inside out?”

John: (Shrugging. His station is “his” chair from the Baker Street set.) No idea. Probably just rubbish. Mycroft—you know how he is.

Mycroft: (Overhearing, and reacting with prim smugness) You mean “usually right”?

Sherlock: (Rounding on Mycroft) He means, “Usually annoying.” Shut it. We’ve got a show to put on.

Molly: (Her station is an empty gurney. She leans against it easily, wearing a lab coat and goggles pushed up on her forehead. Smiling toward Mary, she murmurs) …And we all know how Sherlock likes a show. (She dimples.)

(Sherlock pretends not to have heard that, but it’s clear to those who can see his face that he did hear it, and is befuddled how to react.)

Sherlock: As I was saying, it’s no accident I hold center stage.  It’s… (he stops and looks around, a bit uneasily) It’s…

Mrs. Hudson: (soothingly) It’s what, dear? (Her station is the kitchen table of her home, with a tea set and a plate stacked with mince pies.)

Sherlock: (Scowls) Lost. I’ve lost it?

Mrs. Hudson: Oh, I lose it all the time. It usually turns up behind the sofa cushions. Sometimes under the fridge, of course. Occasionally tucked behind the spare toilet paper box in the loo.

Sherlock: (Confused) What?

Mrs. Hudson: (Equally confused, now.) What?

Sherlock: What do you find behind the repulsive floral spare toilet paper box in your loo?

Mrs. Hudson: (As though it’s elementary) Whatever I’ve lost, of course. Really, there are usually only so many places to look. Though when I was going through the change I did once find my yesterday’s mail in the freezer when I went to get the minced meat out to thaw for a nice Bolognese.

Sherlock: (Eyes shut) John?

John: What, Sherlock?

Sherlock: Oh, good. I was afraid we were back to the days before you came on the scene. No one ever knew their proper lines and blocking before you. You’re a natural. Do come forward for a bit, would you? There’s a good chap.

John: (Snorting in a suppressed fashion and baiting Sherlock just a bit) Rather stay here for now, me. You go right ahead. Show us how it’s done.

Mary: (Grinning) After all, Sherlock, it is named after you… (The supporting characters all have a good little giggle at Sherlock’s expense. Sherlock pouts.) Seriously, love, you’re missing something.

Sherlock: (Grasping at straws, and hoping he’s got a hint he can go on from…) Ah-ha! Yes! There’s always _something!_ Some little thing. Some…thing. Or other. Something…missing. I’m missing…something.

Mycroft: (Very teenaged brother for a quick flash, mutters, sotto vocce) Like a brain, maybe?

Sherlock: (Out of the corner of his mouth, refusing to change posture or look at Mycroft) I _heard_ that.

Mycroft: Good heavens. I am _so_ abashed. What _was_ I thinking?

John: (Mutters) Smart arse…

Lestrade sighs and stands, clapping his hands loudly. From the back of the auditorium, down the center aisle, come secondary characters Anderson, Donovan, Janine, Anthea, Mummy and Father, carrying what appears to be a corpse on a yellow emergency stretcher covered in an orange shock blanket. He himself ambles to stand at Sherlock’s shoulder.

Lestrade: This is a weird one, Sherlock. Found it in a back alley in the Seven Dials, surrounded by thick fog and lit with, would you believe it, gas lights?

Sherlock: (Finally on track, he’s alight and focused.) Who’s the victim?

(There is a pregnant pause, as all the other characters, including the “pall bearers,” look reprovingly at Sherlock.)

Lestrade: (Pinching the bridge of his nose.) It’s a _mystery_.

Sherlock: I know it’s a _mystery._ That’s why you’ve called me in, after all. The show’s named after me, and that means it’s a _mystery._ But…(the penny drops, and he gets it.) (sighs heavily) Yes, all right, fine. “Oh, a mystery! Have you got your people checking for ID?”

Lestrade: Donovan’s running a print-check, but so far no luck. (When her name is mentioned Donovan gives the audience a cheeky little “Hi-hi, that’s me!” wave and grin.) Why don’t you give him a look-see, Sherlock? Do a bit of deducing. You know—bit of the old Holmes magic. (Snaps his fingers like he’s Endora, on Bewitched.)

Sherlock: (Sour) Yes, yes, right. “Bit of a look-see”? Really, Lestrade… (He goes over, and gestures for the pall bearers to put the stretcher down. They do so, then retreat, as Sherlock first studies the draped form, then flips back the blanket to reveal feet—which he observes carefully.)

Lestrade: Wrong end…

Sherlock: On the contrary, you have no notion how much I can determine from a shoe or boot. In this case, the owner spends considerable time in Cardiff. The dust is distinctive.

Lestrade: Yeah, yeah, let’s not go any more meta than we already are, Sherlock. This is going to be bad enough as it is without getting the studio location involved. Try the _other side._

Sherlock: (Mutters) Spoilsport. Don’t forget—the show’s named after _me_. I’m the smart one, here.

Mycroft: (Mutters) You wish.

Sherlock flips back the shock blanket at the head of the figure, only to discover a paper plate with a smiley drawn on in black wide-tip felt marker.

Sherlock: His face has been systematically stripped of all identity!

Molly rises and trots over, kneeling by the stretcher as Lestrade hangs back looking properly intrigued and clueless.

Molly: Do you want to see more?

Sherlock: No. He’s male, and I haven’t been looking at any naked men lately, except John this morning when he forgot his robe for the shower. Streaked me over my breakfast coffee. But I can tell this is not John.

Molly: You can?

Sherlock: Yes. John’s sitting over there.

Lestrade: You’re not supposed to know that. Not _en scene._

Sherlock: And have you noticed anyone here honoring that convention?

Lestrade shrugs. Molly shakes her head vigorously.

Sherlock: See? Just remember—it’s named after me. If I do it—it’s all right.

Lestrade: Well, not entirely. If you murder someone you get arrested and go to jail.

Sherlock: Nope. (Pops his ‘p’) Whisked off set, show up on the tarmac, am supposed to be sent to Eastern Europe—but, hey-presto, get called back. It’s all good.

Molly: Cruel to supporting characters?

Sherlock: Nope. (Pop) Forgiven by characters, who remain dedicated fans. I told you: all good.

John: Rotten to your co-lead?

Sherlock: (Without turning around) Who’s it named after, John?

John: It _could_ be named after me.

Mary: But it’s not.

Sherlock: See? Mary knows. If it’s not named after you, then you have to forgive me. Or die. If it’s me? All good. The audience forgives you if it’s named after you.

The corpse behind the paper mask says in Moriarty’s voice: Or you can be the repeating villain. Repeating villains are allowed to hate your guts, Sherl.

Sherlock: (Flips shock blanket back over mask and says with profound acid dripping from every word,) I have no idea who this is. It’s a mystery. A complete mystery.

John: (Rising from his station and sauntering over.) Amazing! That’s amazing, Sherlock! How did you figure it out?

Sherlock: Easy-peasy. Familiar dust, but unfamiliar Italian narrow-point shoes in size 10 worn over narrow-peg trousers cut fashionably short. Height 5’9”, approximately ten stone, brown hair, Irish accent, medium tenor. Departed exhibits antisocial behavior, narcissism, vanity, and a reprehensible sense of humor, as well as appearing to enjoy pitting himself against the Person the Show is NAMED after. Description fits no one we know. Voila! By a fierce exertion of my disciplined mind, I deduce the victim is unknown to me, and thus officially a mystery. (Waves for the patient pall bearers to carry away the corpse....)

John: (applauding) Fantastic!

Sherlock: You think so, John? (smirks)

Mycroft: What they don’t know is that it’s all just a matter of investing in a great ego and an admiring friend. Everyone looks smarter with cheerleaders.

Sherlock: And you keep Anthea why?

Mycroft: (Nose in air) She had the highest texting speeds.

Sherlock: But you don’t text.

Mycroft: (Glowering) But you do. Someone has to stem the flood…

Mrs. Hudson: Boys, boys, now, what kind of manners did your mother teach you?

Mycroft and Sherlock in unison: Mrs. Hudson!

She frowns at them, then grins

Mrs. Hudson: Oh, you boys. You know you don’t mean it. Not really.

Sherlock: (Sharklike smile) No, of course we don’t. Oh, by the way, I gave you the rent check last week. No need to tap me for it this week.

Mrs. Hudson: (frowns) Are you sure, Sherlock, dear?

Sherlock: Certain.

Mrs. Hudson: (Still a bit unsure…) But it would show up in the bank statement, wouldn’t it?

Sherlock: It was a classified payment. MI5, you know. No paper trail.

Mrs. Hudson: (More chipper) Oh, well then! That’s all right. Remind me if I forget, there’s a love.

Sherlock: I will, Hudders. Oh—I think I threw in some to cover mince pies. Be sure to pick some up for me next time you’re out.

Mary and Molly: Sherlock!

John: (To Mary and Molly) Don’t look at me! I never did that! It’s him—you know what he’s like.

Lestrade: (Weary) Yeah. We know.

Sherlock: What? It’s part of my scapegrace charm!

The ensemble frowns at him.

Unison: Only because it’s your name on the show.

John: (Reluctantly) They’ve got kind of a point, Sherlock. You can be a total cock when you put your mind to it.

Lestrade: No. Got it backward. He can be almost nice when he sets his mind to it. When he doesn’t, he’s just a clot all the time.

Sherlock: So why do you come to me for cases?  Ah—it’s canon. Because you’re “Desperate.”

Lestrade: Yeah, and it’s canon I’m the best the Met has to offer… which is supposed to be a good thing.

Sherlock: (rolls eyes, and flops into his own station for the first time—his own chair from the Baker Street set.) Not that it was ever saying much. Face it, Gavin, it’s _my show._ I find the clues, I put them together, I leap to the brilliant conclusions. I get the best lines. You and John say “He’s amazing.”

Lestrade: I say “drugs raid.”

Sherlock: Once. Only once! Before they even made a clear point that I do use the stuff! Since then? Nothing. (Smirks) Like John being furious when he finds I’m using, then shutting up once there’s a game on.

John: Yeah. He’s got a point, Greg. (tired) His name. His show. His rules. (A bit resentfully, with a glance at Mary) Always his rules.

Mary: (dry) You really wanted to go one more season on gay jokes and Sherlock playing you like he plays that fiddle? Come on, love, at least I add some verisimilitude to the illusion of your heterosexuality.

John: I’m not gay.

Mary: Your actor’s not gay. You? You’re ambiguous. Sexually bland, romantically Sherlocked.

John: Me, my actor. What difference? Either way, you’re sleeping with me… (The two exchange mischievous grins)

Molly: We’re not our actors.

Mrs. Hudson: Mmmmmm. Well…. Maybe not entirely, but….

Mycroft: (More certain) We are _not our actors._ If we were, Sherlock would be far more bearable.

Mary: (grinning) And John would be far less patient with the prat.

Lestrade: And I’d solve a lot more of these cases, even without police training…I mean…come on. Chinese Acrobats?

Sherlock: You’re all just jealous.

Lestrade: Well. You did get the coat.

John: You can afford the taxis everywhere.

Mrs. Hudson: You get to beat the bad guy, instead of being beaten.

Molly: You don’t have to keep drifting back into masochistic, submissive habits like giving you _MY_ bedroom, because you need the space. (She glares, suddenly on fire with it.) I mean, really. If I were my actress, I would have decked you. Or kissed you till your eyes crossed then landed a knee where it matters.

Mary: (Reaching over and patting her hand) There, there, love. You did get to slap him. Twice. Better than anyone else has done since John decked him.

John: (In misty satisfaction) That’s me, it is: Three-Concussions Watson. I have a reputation, I have.

The pall bearers come out again, this time carrying the stretcher decked in exotic brocade drapery. On it, sitting in an intricate coil, is Irene Adler, wearing an entirely bogus and exceedingly revealing, gauzy, velvety harem costume.

Irene: But you still took care of those cheekbones. (sighs) No matter how many times they let you hit him, you’re careful not to break his face. (She puts out one hand, and Lestrade graciously hands her down from her transport. The pall bearers settle on the lip of the stage, watching the show, with the stretcher at the ready for later. Irene wafts around the inside of the circle once for pure show, then snakes her sultry way over to Sherlock. She leans over and traces his cheekbones with one finger.) I could cut my teeth on those cheekbones.

Sherlock: (frowns) That wasn’t your line.

Irene: Yes, but this isn’t your show. _This_ show isn’t named after you.

Sherlock: It’s not?

Mycroft: Ping. The penny drops. Dear brother, didn’t it occur to you that in spite of John’s presence, no one seems to know their lines or blocking?

Irene: (Tousling his hair) We know the lines and blocking—his lines and blocking. We’re just not limited by them. Are we, Mike?

Mycroft: Watch it. I could call you “Reeny.”

Irene: (Shuddering eloquently) No. You couldn’t.

Sherlock: (Uneasy) If it’s not my show, whose show is it? (He glances around, eyes narrow, as though deducing the likely titular character. He glares at Mycroft.) You? Is this your show, then? That would explain why everyone’s so catty. You always were jealous.

Mycroft: (Rising and ambling over to Irene, who smiles and slips her arm around his waist.) I’m afraid it’s not named after me, either brother-mine.

Irene: (to Mycroft) Do you ever wonder about that? The whole ‘Brother-mine” thing? (She shivers.) Right out of that creepy Dr. Who episode with the awful family? Brother-mine and Sister-mine and all the family-mine?

Mycroft: Oooh, nice catch. _Human Nature_ and _Family of Blood._ But it’s “brother of mine,” not “brother-mine.”

Irene: Close enough. And you’re quick!

Mycroft: (Shrugs and smirks) Genius. Smarter than Sherlock. Add in that I’m not just written by a Whovian, he plays me, too. There’s some knowledge bleed on occasion.

Sherlock: (Sullen) But _he_ didn’t write them.

Mycroft: Tch-tch. He’s twice cursed—fanboy and professional interest. Two crazies for the price of one.

Sherlock: That explains so much. (Glaring balefully at Irene and Mycroft, then, to Irene: ) If I’m not my character, why don’t you drape yourself over my lap?

Irene: Because you’re not your actor. (smiles) I rather liked your actor.

Sherlock: If I’m not my actor, who am I?

Mycroft: My baby brother, of course.

John: My roommate. Or you used to be, before you pranked me by playing suicide in front of me.

Lestrade: My insulting—sorry, _consulting_ detective.

John: (Gets up, takes Mary’s hand, and leads her over to Mrs. Hudson’s table, where the two proceed to pour themselves tea and much out on biscuits.) No, Greg, I think you got it right the first time.

Mary: Yeah. I think you’re right. “Insulting Detective.”

Donovan: Good one, guv! Hit ‘im again, hit ‘im again, harder, harder!

Anderson: Don’t be mean! He’s a genius.

Janine: Oh, let him hit Shay-Shay at least a few more times.

Father Holmes: Oh, give the boy a chance.

Mummy Holmes: He’s not a bad boy.

Mycroft: (sniffs) That shows what you know. You always did believe him when he told fibs.

Sherlock: (overdone anguish) Mummy, he’s saying bad things about me again!

Mummy: Mycroft! Set a good example.

Mycroft: (Under his breath) Set a good example, Mycroft! Take care of your baby brother, Mycroft! (Regular voice) Can’t you see even now he’s got you wrapped around his finger?

Father: Shhhhy, Mikey, he’s her last baby.

Mycroft: He’s just a character. We’re all just characters. It’s not real—we can decide who we are, if we’re made up anyway. It’s not his show, here!

Donovan: (Small, happy whoop) Tell it!

Mrs. Hudson: (frowning) But if it’s not his show, whose show is it?

Anthea: (Busy texting) The writers’ show, yes? And the directors, and the show runners, and the actors, yeah? (she looks up at the watching characters, and asks) What? What did I say?

Mycroft: (Stalking away from Irene and going to sit in John’s chair. John’s and Sherlock’s chairs are placed so that, as in the show, they face each other at a slight angle.) An existential dilemma. If it’s not your show, whose show is it? The original writer’s?

Sherlock: (Snorts, and leans back, looking affronted.) That old dinosaur? I’d have deleted his stuff if it weren’t my source material.

Mrs. Hudson: Now, be nice, dear—I quite liked those stories growing up.

Lestrade: (Migrates to Mrs. Hudson’s table and joins John and Mary. He remains standing, but steals a mince pie.) (Grins) They were right fun, they were. Even if they did make me look a prat.

Mrs. Hudson: (Laughs) You should complain. I got to serve tea and bring up clients and get into the occasional bit of trouble off the page. It’s been much more fun this go-round.

The actors have grouped themselves as follows: Mycroft and Sherlock, facing off across an imagined fireplace, in confrontation, if not conflict. Mary, John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, over at Mrs. Hudson’s table, on Mycroft’s side of the stage. Directly opposite, sitting along the edge of the stage, are Mummy, Father, Anthea, Janine, Donovan and Anderson. They can steal a chair or two from other stations to make a more varied set of heights for the grouping, but should stay together. They’re verso and response choruses, in some ways. Molly has come to occupy the middle of the stage, and during play has slowly dropped to sit cross legged on the floor, trying to understand the slowly developing battle. Irene is free-floating, as Moriarty will be.

Molly: (softly) I didn’t exist at all.

Anthea, Donovan, Anderson, Mummy and Father, Janine: (softly) Neither did we.

Mycroft: It was the seed from which it all grew, though.

John: He was less of a prat, then. (Glaring at Sherlock)

Mycroft: (small dissenting noise) Sherlock’s always a prat, John.

Lestrade: (Nodding) Yeah. They just don’t hide it as well.

Irene: It was another time. Another London.

Sherlock: (fierce) Another me.

Mary: (Amused) But still a drama queen.

John, Mycroft, and Lestrade all laugh, and say in varied ways: Yeah, sure, that’s him, always a total berk.

John: The dog in the nighttime—it didn’t bark!

Mycroft: Eliminate the impossible…what remains…

Lestrade:…however improbable…

All three: Must! Be! True!

Irene: The Woman…. (She’s purring with pleasure, as she swans over toward Molly…) Get up, love, there’s a dear, and let me sit there. It gives me a better angle of attack.

Molly starts to get up.

Janine: Oh for God’s sake…. (She rises, and stalks to the center, putting a hand on Molly’s head, and pushing down, as she faces off with Irene.) Jayzus, let the girl be. You had your win…least you can do is let her have a little existential crisis in center stage, just like any other worthwhile heroine, y’ pushy cow.

Irene: Fake characters have to stick together, eh?

Mary: (Dry) I think it’s a bit more like sticking up for Everywoman.

Irene: Oh, like you’re such a fine example. We’re all the Black Widow, right?

Mary: Not a widow yet.

Irene: Luck. Next season John’ll have to move in with Sherlock to avoid poison, or something.

Molly: Stop it!

Both look at her.

Molly: Just because it’s not his show anymore, doesn’t mean I want it to be ours. Or anyone’s. Can’t be be all of ours? Like…like an ensemble? Like…like a family?

Sherlock: (Snorts and rolls his eyes in vast melodramatic dismay) Oh, like families are such good role models for happy, functional living. (shoots a poisonous glance at Mycroft) At least when it was _my_ show there was order and discipline. I’d think you’d be all for it, _Mycroft._

Moriarty: (Storming in from off stage, he sweeps past Mrs. Hudson’s station, past Molly, Irene, and Janine, and gets into Sherlock’s face.) Order? Discipline? There was “Sherlock wins.” And “Sherlock wins again.” And “Sherlock wins some more.” And when Sherlock wasn’t winning, people didn’t like it. Which is all well and good for you: people mind if you get shot. But the rest of us aren ‘t so lucky, are we?

Mycroft: (Rising) But he was order. He was discipline, even in madness. (Looks at Moriarty in disgust) Whereas you’re just madness.

Moriarty: I’m geeeeeee-nius. (Smiles fondly at Sherlock) They’re not like _us,_ are they? They strangle themselves on angel feathers, even as they’re falling-falling-falling down. They’re about ‘makes sense,” and “Seems fair.” Us? We’re about “Not Boring.” That’s who the show belongs to. Not Boring. Them? (scoffs) Nah. Not them. They’re dull. They’re ordinary. They’re _boring._ (Leans over Molly) You are, you know—don’t you? You know why he insults you? Because you’re boring. You know why they write you as being too stupid to leave and too weak to ever really make him stop? Because you’re boring. Plain, stupid, boring Molly. (He glances around the circle) All of you—boring. You can be smart like Mycroft, or loyal like Johnny-boy, or strong like Lestrade or ditzy like Mrs. Hudson. You can be anything you want—but it’s his show because he’s not moral—he’s Not Boring.

Donovan: He’s a crazy berk. A killer looking for an excuse.

Mary: He’s the monkey mind—never still, never disciplined. (John frowns at her.) What? Someone in this lot has to know something about world religion, for God’s sake. You can’t all be like Sherlock and delete what doesn’t interest  you.

Lestrade: He’s the protagonist. Protagonists aren’t nice people.

Molly: (Softly) John shoots not-nice-people. Mary does, too.

Lestrade : Maybe that’s why they’re the two who have to be his very best friends. They’re the only two who can kill him if he needs killing.

Sherlock: They wouldn’t kill me.

Mary: Um….Sherlock…

Sherlock: You didn’t. You saved me.

Lestrade: (Still quiet) Exactly. Someone has to know where to aim before you go completely mad.

Janine: She’s got a point, Sherl. Pretty far gone, you were.

John: But… I wouldn’t…

Sherlock: (Pained and fighting down uneasiness.) John. Please. Don’t say you wouldn’t kill me if I needed to be killed. If I’d gone mad.

Moriarty: Mad, bad, and dangerous to know—that’s you, Sherlock! Interesting!

Mycroft: Interest does not have to depend on instability.

Anthea: Yeah, boss. It does.

Donovan: Lady’s got a point. Without a bit of mess, well. No show, no us. No us, no existential crisis.

Molly: I like nice better. (She stands) But I guess that’s why they didn’t name a show after me, isn’t it?

John: (Still disturbed) Sherlock—I wouldn’t kill you. (Rises and paces close) You know that, don’t you? I wouldn’t. Not now, not ever.

Sherlock: (Rising like pent lightning, suddenly furious) Then what are you good for, John? You keep me right. How can you keep me right if there’s no “too far”? No final limit?

Mary: I think that’s what I’m there for.

Sherlock: (Whirls on her) No! He’s _John_. Some things you can’t hand off by proxy. He’s got to be ready to kill me, if it’s necessary. Not a surgical shot, a killing shot. I’ve got to trust him to do that. Everyone has to trust him to do that. It’s his job. (Turns on Moriarty) I stop you—and John stops me. That’s how it works. Or ‘Not Boring” becomes boring, and ugly.

Mycroft: All lives must end. All hearts must be broken.

Sherlock: (Rounding on his brother, now) And that’s why the show’s not named after you. You’re smarter, older, more powerful, more successful. Just as fucking wounded. But you’ve drunk it down deep, haven’t you? You see the end, and it fucking terrifies you. You’ll live in your little, pristine doll house, go to your silent club, just to avoid thinking about how the end rips it all away from all of us.

Mycroft: (Nods, in icy acknowledgement, then points at Molly.) Then why isn’t it her show? She’s vulnerable. A fool, too—an eternal idiot, inviting chaos in over and over. Why isn’t it her show?

Anderson: Because she’s who we are when we’re afraid. (Ducks head, in resignation) We all are. Me. Donovan. Anyone can look at any of the rest of us and think, “Yes, that’s me. I’ve been afraid like that. I’ve lived like that. I’ve broken like that.” Sherlock, though… (He looks up, eyes on fire.) He’s what we are when we’re not afraid—when we eat terror instead of letting terror eat us. He’s every challenge we ever dreamed of meeting, and every victory we ever dreamed we could win.

Molly: He’s every time we ever wanted to be forgiven, undeserving.

Mary: Every time we ever wanted to spit in the face of the odds.

Lestrade: Every time we wanted the angels to win when they didn’t hold the high cards.

Mrs. Hudson: Every time we wanted to be mothered at our worst, instead of our best.

Anderson and the pall bearers: He has to be almost too bad. Almost too mad.

John: (Poised between the two chairs.) And we have to be here, to keep him in check…or he really is Moriarty.

Mycroft: (Nods) It’s his show.

Molly: So, we’re really just there to hold him up. Say how awesome he is. Make his world.

Mycroft: No. It’s his show—but we’re his soul. John to love him to the very end, even if that end’s at the point of his own gun. Me to argue with him, make him think. Lestrade to demand he look, and look again. Mary to make him stretch his heart. Each of us, playing a role to make him whole. It’s his show—but he’s our Sherlock. Without us, he’s alone with Moriarty and Irene…and no one else.

Sherlock: That’s ridiculous.

Mycroft: I know.

John: (Dubious) What _exactly_ are you saying?

Mycroft: (Smug) It’s his show. It’s got his name on it. That means we’re in charge. In the end it’s not the actors, or writers, or even the audience. It’s us. Without us, Sherlock is…nothing. No one. (He stretches, walks across to Mrs. Hudson, offering his arm.) Shall we demonstrate, my good woman?

Mrs. Hudson: (Confused) But if we leave, who’s he going to talk to?

Mycroft: Exactly. Or love. Or hate. Or fight. Or live for. Or die for. Come along, my dear. I’ll order you a cream tea at the Diogenes. (They walk off together.)

Mary: (to John) I think that’s our cue, love. (Rises from the table, and walks toward John) Shall we exit?

John: Pursued by a bear?

Mary: You know, I think I’ve done that once. It was on a mission in Russia, and… (they walk off, arm in arm…)

Lestrade: (To Molly) Here. I can walk with you aways. Maybe we can stop for a pint at the pub?

Molly: I…(Looks at Sherlock) What will he do without us?

Lestrade: (with an amused grin that he makes sure Sherlock sees) Wait for us to come back. Not much else to do meantime, is there? (They exit…)

The pall bearers are all standing, now, carrying the stretcher. The brocades have been flipped, and it’s now draped in neat, boxy black.

Irene and Moriarty circle the stage, herding Sherlock.

Moriarty: See? They’re gone, now. No more limits.

Irene: No more rules.

Moriarty: We can do what we like.

Irene: The adults have left the room.

Moriarty: The babies have been put down for the naps.

Irene: It’s playtime, Sherlock.

Moriarty: Fun time.

Together: Join us.

Sherlock has edged toward the center of the stage, where he started, and where Molly sat.

Sherlock: No. No, it’s not fun.

Moriarty: It’s Not Boring.

Sherlock: It’s deathly.

Irene: What? No limits is dull?

Sherlock: (Looking around at the empty stage.) Utterly.

Moriarty: But the game’s on.

Irene: The rulebook’s thrown away.

Sherlock: The teams have left the field…

Moriarty: So? You’ll have us to play with.

Sherlock: (Studying them.) No. I don’t think so. (Turns to the pall bearers) Taxi! (As he climbs aboard) You try it. I’m leaving.

Moriarty: It will be the death of you. They’ll be the death of you.

Irene: They’ll break your heart.

Sherlock: Yes. But when they do—I’ll care. And that’s the one thing that’s improbable, but true: the only thing that’s not dull is caring. (Sits on stretcher, and the “taxi” pulls away.)

Moriarty reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his smiley mask and puts it on

Moriarty: (To Irene) Want one?

Irene: (A bit flirtatious, a lot dryly amused) Yeah. Sure. Why not?

Moriarty hands her a paper plate from another pocket, this one with a Sad Face.

Irene: (Grimace) Oh, now that’s just heavy-handed.

Moriarty: (Shrugs) Hey, don’t look at me. It’s more or less allegorical. That always gets kind of messy.

Irene: So they left us with the crappy joke to finish with?

Moriarty: We’re the villains. It’s our job.

Irene: (grins, a foxy, fanged grin) Yeah. There is that. I knew I liked this job for a reason. C’mon, villain, take me out for a drink and I’ll show you how the big antagonists do it.

Both leave. Lights out. You tell me, do they ever come on, or are you on your own, groping your way to the light without a guide or a footlight to help you in the darkness?

 


End file.
